


Make it home through the forest

by becka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curtain Fic, Heaven, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: Sam and Dean make a home in heaven and each other.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 113





	Make it home through the forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [balefully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully/gifts).



> I haven’t written SPN fic since the lost days of LiveJournal, but balefully made me watch the finale and then a lot of episodes I missed in in the last [redacted] years. So this is a small story for her because Sam and Dean love each other the most, forever and ever amen.
> 
> Title from Bruce Springsteen. Any mistakes are my own.

There’s a long gravel driveway, and a Keep Out sign half-swallowed by a tree, pointless anyway because no one can come by without an invitation. The tops of the pine trees run together somewhere far overhead, and the light slanting between them is the precious gold of early fall. Dean looks nervous, pulling up to it, this place he made for Sam to come home to. The porch is the one from the house they rented the summer Sam was ten, with a wide railing he used like a balance beam, dragging his fingertips across the ceiling slats. The angle of the roof is the house in Lawrence, but the house itself is smaller, cozier, nestled underneath it. Sam thinks it must be quilted together from places Dean has loved, but in the end, it’s just a house, humble among the towering trees.

Dean kept putting his hand on Sam’s knee on the drive, like he wanted to reassure himself that his passenger seat wasn’t empty anymore. Sam let Dean’s voice wash over him in a familiar wave, telling him about heaven like he was running down the facts of a case. “Mom and Dad are right down the road,” he said.

“How are they?” Sam asked.

“I haven’t seen them,” Dean replied. “I was just waiting for you.”

“Was it a long wait?”

“No,” Dean told him, and his hand went for Sam’s knee again and stayed. “But you had a whole life, didn’t you, Sammy?”

“Yeah.” _I got married and I missed you_ , he thought. _I had a kid and I missed you. I bought a house and lived in the same town for 30 years and I missed you every single day._

“Then sometime you can tell me about it.”

And then the gravel drive, the towering trees, the quilted house. Dean’s hand on his knee the whole time, making him real. They get out of the car, and the inside is like the outside. Almost every object feels familiar but displaced. He knows some of it’s his, brought here by his own thoughts: the rug Jess put down in their living room; the curtains he hung in the house where he died, crisp like they’ve just come out of the package.

He runs his fingers over the furniture, and Dean follows him around the first floor, hands in his pockets, every footstep a new comfort. “Sammy,” he says finally, in a kitchen that looks like the kitchen in the bunker, and Sam turns to him. “Is it okay? Would you rather have your own place?”

Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t want any version of the afterlife where he doesn’t hear Dean’s footsteps every day. But his throat closes around the words, and he hugs Dean instead, tears gathering in his eyes because this was all he wanted for so long, and every time he let himself think of it, the pain was just as fresh as ever. Dean clutches the back of his jacket with both hands and tip their faces together, hanging on.

Sam thinks about the distance between their mouths, and it’s a thought so old and worn that he doesn’t flinch from it. He shouldn’t kiss his brother on the mouth. But then Dean kisses him first.

He nudges his lips against Sam’s, and Sam breathes through one frozen moment and then chases Dean with his open mouth, his willing tongue. He cups a hand around Dean’s jaw, and Dean’s body feels real and living and his pulse is racing where Sam’s thumb rests against his throat. Their mouths fit slickly together, and there’s no reason to stop for breath, so they just keep kissing, deep and slow the way Sam always imagined Dean would kiss someone he cared about.

Finally Dean pulls away, his hand warm on the back of Sam’s neck, holding their faces together. “Think they’ll kick us out for this?” Dean says, low and pleased. 

“I hope not,” replies Sam.

“We’ve done worse, right? We’ve done a lot worse. And they still let us in.”

“Sometimes I thought I wouldn’t make it,” Sam admits. “After everything.” He kisses the corner of Dean’s smile.

The creases at the corners of Dean’s eyes deepen. “Sammy, you’re the best of us. When I got here, I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“I missed you so much, Dean.”

“I missed you too, Sammy.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “I thought about you every day. And I couldn’t do anything about it.” He doesn’t know how to express how heavy that was to carry, not begging for Dean back, not making deals, just knowing they wouldn’t see each other as long as Sam lived. He resigned himself to it, over time, but it felt like an empty, featureless road stretching ahead of him. Old age became a possibility and a punishment.

“I’m sorry, Sammy.” Dean’s hand climbs into his hair and strokes there, fiercely. “But you lived a good life, right? And you got here.”

“I had a kid. I raised him like I wish we were raised. He went to school with all the same people kindergarten through senior year, came home to a house with a yard. I taught him to drive in a car with airbags. He never hunted.” Sam pauses. “But I tried to protect him. He knew to salt the windows and doors. I made sure there was always holy water in the house. I told him to trust his instincts. But when he was six and he said he was scared of the dark, I gave him a nightlight instead of a shotgun.”

“I bet you were a great dad,” says Dean roughly. Their faces are too close together for Sam to judge his expression; it seems complicated. “What’s his name?”

“Dean,” says Sam, and it feels like he’s confessing something more than he already has.

“Creative, Sammy.”

“I wanted him to grow up to be a man like my big brother.”

Dean huffs and kisses him again, slow enough to savor. He knits his fingers together at the back of Sam’s neck, solid as anything, thumbs sitting against the hinge of his jaw. “Shouldn’t do this while we’re talking about your kid, should we?” Dean says, but his mouth lingers. “Did you have a wife too? Or a husband?” A little twist on the word, not mean.

Sam nods tightly. “I had a wife. For a few years. But we weren’t happy. I think I wasn’t a very good husband after a while.” The part of him that was biding his time until he could join his brother was too visible sometimes, the part of him that was irrevocably changed by years fighting heaven and hell. He told her a lot about Dean and hunting and why he never finished undergrad, but not everything. “I think we were happier apart.”

“But you kept the kid?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “She had other stuff she needed to do. And I think I needed to be a dad.”

It makes Dean kiss him again, which is weird, but it’s what he wants. It’s what he’s wanted for a long time. He pushes his hands under Dean’s jacket, mapping Dean’s waist with his fingertips, warming at the small of his back. Dean gasps when Sam’s teeth tug his lower lip. It makes him want to push Dean up against something, rub against him, feel every inch of their bodies together. But as Sam is eying the nearest wall, Dean squeezes the back of his neck and leans away. “Hey, Sammy, are you sure?”

Sam huffs a laugh, can’t keep it in. “I’m really, really sure.” He offers his mouth to Dean again, and Dean accepts, tugging at Sam’s hair this time, pulling him down. Sam kisses him deeply, starts wondering if there’s a bed upstairs big enough for the two of them. “Has this house got a bedroom?” he asks.

Dean’s eyes open. “Let’s find out.”

The top of the stairs shimmers like hot asphalt as Sam leads the way, and he thinks their thoughts must be forming and colliding, making something right now for the two of them to step into. It resolves into a little circle of hallway and a bedroom that stops being a double motel room when Sam blinks. Was that his mind or Dean’s, imagination stunted by years on the road? Now there’s one bed instead, queen size, with a plain wooden headboard and a quilt that looks handmade. Sam’s sure he’s never seen it before, and it feels like a glimpse of Dean’s soft secret heart, even though he’s not sure where it came from.

“That’ll do,” says Dean, and he grabs Sam’s jacket and kisses him again. They come out of layers of clothes like shed skin, leaving them both pink and new. Sam touches Dean’s chest, feels his incidental heartbeat and skims his thumb across one peaked nipple. Dean hisses, and Sam files that away under things he didn’t expect to know about his brother. “Do you know what you’re doing, Sammy?” Dean asks.

“I hope so,” says Sam, who went to gay bars as a nearly 40-year-old and went home with men older than he was, men who recognized new grief. He didn’t say “my brother” to them, played the widower because it fit better, because they didn’t need to know that his only experience with men was a handful of hookups a lifetime ago. “Do you?”

Dean is sheepish. “It’s been a while. You should go easy on me.”

“I died old in bed. Maybe you should go easy on me.”

Dean touches his chest, the ring of his tattoo, the hard muscle beneath. “You don’t look like somebody who died old in bed.” He mouths at Sam’s neck, then along the slope of his clavicle. Sam’s body reacts, a shiver all over.

The sheets are hunter green flannel, starting to pill, like Dean can’t imagine wanting something fresh and new. They lie together in the bed, kissing, waiting each other out, their hips colliding, hard cocks pushed against each other’s bellies but directionless in their movement. Finally, Dean spits into his palm, takes them both in hand. “Like this okay?” he asks, and Sam nods. He pushes into the grip of his brother’s fingers, feels Dean’s cock twitch against his. Dean’s hand can’t wrap around them both, and Sam uses his own to close the gap, holding Dean’s hand and mimicking his rhythm, a leisurely stroke that feels like a prelude to something more.

Their faces are close on a single pillow, and Sam licks at Dean’s mouth again, Dean kissing back devotedly. When Sam wishes there were less friction, he finds his palm slick, the rules of heaven easing his grip on his brother’s cock. Dean ruts forward with a grunt. “Heaven must not mind this too much, huh?”

“Guess not,” breathes Sam.

Dean puts a hand on his chest. “Fuck me then.”

“Yeah? How?”

Dean releases their cocks and rolls over, giving Sam his back and the soft handful of his ass. He angles his body against Sam’s, and Sam remembers sharing a bed when they were small, Dean’s knees against the backs of Sam’s, Dean curved around him just so. It felt safe then, and he bends to offer Dean that safety, kissing his shoulder and the freckled nape of his neck as he pulls him close. “You like being the big spoon?” Dean asks, like he knows what Sam’s thinking.

“I like both,” Sam answers honestly.

“Good,” says Dean, and he holds himself open for Sam’s cock. “We’ll do that next time.” He’s slick and softened when Sam presses greedily into him, just like Sam knew he would be, and he thinks of the eternity of next times available to them as he sinks in deep. Dean groans and shifts back onto him, and Sam feels him shivering and clutching tight on his cock, opening up just enough for Sam to get all the way inside.

He moves slow to start, rolling his hips forward until he finds a spot Dean likes, and Dean grabs at his hip with blunt, decisive fingers. After that Sam fucks him like he wants to, like he’s always imagined it, and Dean swears and hangs on, flexing around Sam, letting his cock drip untouched.

“Do you want you to touch you?” Sam asks against the nape of Dean’s neck, but he’s already doing it, palm slick again as he works Dean’s cock, and Dean’s swearing is edged with gratitude now. His fingers dig into Sam’s hip, even tighter as he starts to come, jerking in Sam’s hand and striping the clean sheets with come. Sam pauses, close, savoring Dean clenching tight around him, one hand still holding him in place.

“Who told you to stop?” Dean asks. Then more softly, like he wasn’t raised on scrambled pay-per-view porn, “You can come in me.”

Sam gasps and presses his face into the curve of Dean’s shoulder. It doesn’t take long, and he stifles his groan in Dean’s skin. When he pulls out it makes a wet, unflattering sound, and he thinks he didn’t expect to worry so much about corporeality in heaven, but he slides his fingers down the crack of Dean’s ass, smearing his come around and making Dean groan. What’s to stop him licking all of it out of him? But maybe that’s in the eternity of next times. Maybe he’ll make a list.

“Remember when we first found the bunker?” Dean says after a while of spooning in silence. “And we each had our own rooms?”

“When you learned to cook?”

“I already knew how to cook,” replies Dean, offended. “I just didn’t have much chance without a real kitchen. Anyway, the point is, I don’t want my own room now.”

Sam spent decades sleeping alone, listening to an old house settle and imagining his brother’s breath in the silence. “Deal,” Sam tells him.


End file.
